


A Pressing Need For Shoelaces

by telperion_15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has started a new investigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pressing Need For Shoelaces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from entangled_now: Sherlock/John, laces.
> 
> Spoilers: minor mention of 'The Great Game'.

The first thing John knew about Sherlock’s latest experiment was when he walked into the darkened living room at 221b Baker Street and felt like he’d blundered face first into a spider’s web, or possibly the tendrils of some low hanging vine. Which was ridiculous, considering he was in a small flat in the heart of London, and _not_ in the Amazonian rainforest.

“Don’t worry, John.” Sherlock’s voice came from the other side of the room, where the only light source, a small table lamp, shed very little illumination on whatever it was John had found himself tangled in. “They won’t hurt you.”

He sounded amused rather than anything else, and it was that which assured John he was in no real danger, and allowed him to collect his wits, step back a little, and turn on the overhead light, flooding the room instantly with brightness.

“See?” Sherlock still sounded as if he found the whole thing rather funny. “Completely harmless.”

Now that he had shed more light on the subject, John could see that what he had in fact walked into was a row of dangling shoelaces, hanging from a string that stretched from one side of the room to the other. And it wasn’t the only one either – there were at least ten such rows criss-crossing the living room, all perfectly graded by length, and all at the height of John’s head.

“What the hell is all this?” he asked, ducking a little in order to walk across to Sherlock, although he could still feel the shoelaces brushing across the top of his head. He amused himself briefly by imagining Sherlock bent nearly double every time he wanted to go into the kitchen, as, being nearly a head taller than John, he would most likely throttle himself on one of the taut strings if he didn’t.

“I’m making a study of shoelaces,” Sherlock answered, looking at John as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. Which, given that this was Sherlock, and given the presence of hundreds of shoelaces in his living room, John supposed it probably was.

“Why?”

“It’s not something I’ve looked into in any great depth before,” said Sherlock carelessly. “And I must have something to occupy my mind.”

“But you knew all about the shoelaces on Carl Powers’ trainers,” John pointed out.

Sherlock looked annoyed. “I didn’t say I knew _nothing_ about shoelaces,” he said. “Just that I’d never investigated them properly before.”

“All right, all right, forget I said anything,” John muttered. “Shoelaces, right. Fascinating subject, I’m sure.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected he was being mocked. Which he was, of course. John was faintly surprised that Sherlock had any doubts about the matter.

“Anyway, John, where have you been?” Sherlock asked eventually, apparently deciding to let the matter drop.

“Work. You know, the place that one goes to earn money so they can afford to pay the rent, and buy food and clothes. And apparently, shoelaces,” John said. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Boring,” replied Sherlock dismissively. Then, just as John was about to sit down in his favourite armchair, and remove his head from the range of all the shoelaces, Sherlock jumped up from his own chair.

“Wait, John!”

“What? What is it?” John looked round quickly, certain that Sherlock had just spotted a bomb on the kitchen table, or a sniper on the roof of the building opposite, or possibly some kind of small but deadly animal among the cushions that John had been about to seat himself on.

“Your shoelaces. I must have them!”

“My…what?” said John, confused.

Sherlock was peering down at John’s feet. “Your shoelaces,” he repeated. “I don’t have any of that variety. Give them to me.”

John looked around again, and the hundreds of shoelaces in the immediate vicinity. “How can you possibly be sure you don’t already have them?” he protested feebly, already knowing he was on to a loser.

Sherlock just snorted disdainfully. “As if I wouldn’t have a complete catalogue up here,” he said, tapping his head. “Come, John, don’t be obstructive. I must have those laces.”

“Fine, fine, you can have them,” John conceded. “Hang on a minute and I’ll take off my shoes.”

But Sherlock had already dropped to his knees and, having pushed the bottoms of John’s trouser legs out of the way, was undoing John’s shoes.

“Sherlock, what are you doing? Sherlock, stop it! I’m perfectly capable of…”

“These aren’t the original laces from these shoes,” Sherlock observed, interrupting.

John paused for a second, and then sighed. “I had to buy a new pair about a month ago,” he admitted. “The left one snapped.”

“I thought as much,” Sherlock replied. “The shoes, and particularly the eyelets, are too worn when compared to the relative newness of the laces. You shouldn’t pull your laces so tight, John,” he added. “The strain on them was probably what caused one of them to break. Not to mention that you’re probably doing the circulation in your feet no good at all. I would have thought, as a doctor, you’d be aware of that.”

“I’ll bear it in mind in future,” John said, glaring down at the top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead continuing to pull and tug at the laces of John’s shoes until they came free, and John was left feeling that if he tried to take a single step he’d trip over his own feet.

“Are you happy now?” John asked. “Is your collection complete?”

“Yes, thank you, John,” Sherlock said, with sudden sincerity. He was looking up at John now, and one of his hands was curled around John’s right thigh to steady himself. John suddenly realised he had no clue how long it had been there, but he could feel Sherlock’s warmth seeping through the fabric of his trousers and into his skin. He was suddenly very aware that Sherlock was on his knees in front of him, and his mouth went involuntarily dry.

“Is there anything else you need while you’re down there?” he said, and then wondered what on earth had possessed him to ask such a question.

“I don’t know, John, is there?” Sherlock responded, his voice still serious and sincere. His hand was creeping almost imperceptibly up John’s thigh, although not so imperceptibly that John didn’t notice.

“Sherlock…”

“Is there, John?”

John reached out and grabbed at the string of shoelaces closest to his head, a ridiculous attempt to regain his suddenly rather shaky balance. A few of the laces slipped from the string and fell to the floor, but the expected admonishment from Sherlock never came.

“John?” he said again instead.

“Oh god.” John took a deep breath.

“There might be.”


End file.
